


just let me hold you, so we both fall down

by benjanninsolo



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fix-it fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, the supportive night out at a bar that Emma really deserved tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 08:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10532880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benjanninsolo/pseuds/benjanninsolo
Summary: Fix-it fic for 6x15. Charming and Emma go out for drinks after work and Emma seeks the solace only her father knows how to provide.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had this fic idea in mind as soon as the promo aired last week, because I knew the bar scenes would be absolutely terrible--and hey, they were! That, plus the beautiful Daddy Charming moments at the beginning of the episode, all but convinced me that I absolutely had to write this. Dedicated to Cait, who knows exactly why.
> 
> Title from "Ever the Same" by Rob Thomas.

Digitizing the entirety of the Storybrooke Sheriff’s Department’s records had gone about as well as was to be expected, given the out of date desktop computer taking up residence in her office and the fact that, when it came to anything other than cell phones, her father was about as good as technologically illiterate.

He could slay dragons no problem, but put the man in front of a word processor and you may as well have been putting him on the moon.

Given this realization, Emma and her father had decided to work in tag team formation for the day. He sat on one side of the desk, reciting the contents of each folder to her while she typed up the information necessary to keep for every case file. Engaging in repetitive work had always been a guaranteed way to take her mind off of things. In Boston, this had consisted of researching suspects and surveillance work. In Neverland, she had taken a real liking to pull-ups and whetting the blade of her sword. In Camelot, it had been stitching together dreamcatchers and pacing the halls of Arthur’s castle.

In Storybrooke, it had been investigating leads on cases. But with no new cases to be found, she was left to drag the old ones out of storage and hope she could find solace in twenty-eight years of bizarre crimes.

Thankfully, she had her father there to relate each and every bizarre story. Whether it was the time Leroy had assaulted Tom in the town square with a peppermill that had produced a two hour long sneezing fit, or when Granny had been accused by Dr. Whale of purposefully serving him spoiled meat, Charming managed to give each story such flourish and drama that it was almost like he were reading from Henry’s storybook and not the dry, factual stack of crime logs before them on the desk.

The warmth of his laughter and the bright grin ever present on his face certainly didn’t hurt, either. At times, they were nearly infectious. And at times, they made it easier to forget.

At lunch time, he had excused himself to go pick up their usual standing lunch order at Granny’s—apparently, her taste for grilled cheese and onion rings was an inherited one, although he differed in his preference for strawberry milkshakes versus her vanilla ones. With her dad out of the office, even just for those few moments, Emma found the nagging voices from the back of her head beginning to scream their presence again. When she had woken up that morning, she had almost forgotten, for the briefest of moments, that she was waking in an empty bed, in an empty house. But the bed was cold around her, and she remained all but frozen solid even as she took a longer and hotter than usual shower.

The creaking of the stairs had echoed in her ears as she’d descended them, and when she’d walked into a kitchen so usually full of warmth and laughter and sweet smells and now merely cast in shadow and cold, she had resorted to grabbing a few of Henry’s Pop-tarts for breakfast and calling it a day. She hadn’t even stopped off to make herself a hot cocoa with cinnamon, as that had become Killian’s part of their morning routine in recent weeks. She had doubted it would’ve helped with the constant feelings of cold anyway.

And now, reclining in the chair at her desk, the cold began to overtake her again. On most days before this one, she would have retreated to the docks and stared out over the open sea, hoping to find solace and comfort in the ebbing tides and calls of the gulls as they circled overhead in search of home. Today, however, she had the sinking suspicion that the gulls would sound as though they were laughing at her, mocking and cruel, and the rushes of the waves would scream as they crashed against the jagged shore.

That, of course, was without even taking into account the many a memory she and Killian had shared at the docks, the hesitant flirtation and tearful embraces and the sharing of flasks of rum over caring words and reassuring touches. Despite their spare appearance, the docks held so much within them.

Her office would have to do, then, she decided. But what she wouldn’t have given for a drink…

“When are you and Mom supposed to tag in and out next?”

When she spoke, Charming had barely set foot back in the office, bag of fried food in one hand and tray of frosty drinks in the other. He blinked at her, disbelieving. “You’re not trying to get rid of me already, are you? Emma, I just woke up.” The way his voice rose at the end indicated that he was teasing, but the dejected look on his face revealed otherwise.

Emma laughed then, soft and sheepish in equal measure as she shook her head. “Actually, the exact opposite of that.” As the look on his face shifted further into confusion, she smiled and rose to her feet, taking the food from him and finding a space for it atop her crowded desk. “How would you feel about…maybe going to get a drink tonight? I mean, it’s…it’s been a bit of a few days for us, Dad.”

Something inside her chest constricted at the realization that it could come across as though she were using alcohol to cope. Maybe she was, in part, but she wasn’t thinking of it that way. It had been far too long since she and her father had been able to connect with one another, outside of conversations at work or in moments of crisis. They had been through a lot lately, together and apart, given her visions of her death, the sleeping curse, and now with the recent developments relating to Killian. They more than deserved a night to unwind over a few drinks and supportive conversation.

And maybe, just maybe, this was a part of her that Killian had rubbed off on. She could recall with vivid clarity how she’d initially judged his reliance upon his rum as a method of soothing, a way into conversation. Never could she have anticipated understanding that urge so clearly.

“Honestly?” He lowered himself into his previous seat across from her and rolled up his sleeves. Then, raising one shoulder, he grinned up at her. “I think that’s a great idea.”

“Great!” Emma grinned right back as she unpacked their food from the bag, handing him one of the Styrofoam containers as she retook her seat and made herself comfortable. It was certainly an unconventional method for father-daughter bonding, she had to admit, but…hell, what _wasn’t_ unconventional about them?

* * *

 

Emma had made a pointed effort over the years to avoid anything and everything that reminded her of Alice in Wonderland. It was a more than understandable impulse, really, given her traumatic run in with one…particularly mad hatter. However, Storybrooke was Storybrooke, which meant that The Rabbit Hole was the only place they could go for a proper night out.

(She’d wondered, brief as ever, if that same hatter would be responsible for mixing the bar’s drinks, given his propensity for adding less than palatable ingredients to her tea.)

Now, settled in upon two stools at the counter of the bar with her father seated beside her, she could feel comfortable in saying that, as creepy as the rabbit on the sign out front may have been, there was nothing terribly unsettling about this place. She could see herself going down The Rabbit Hole again without having any particularly uncomfortable memories come back to greet her. And in this town, given all that had happened, that was a rarity.

“So, what are we drinking tonight?” Charming smiled over at her, forearms resting against the counter, and she tried to smile back, but it didn’t feel quite right.

“Anything but rum.”

A look of recognition passed over his face then and he nodded, quick and sure. It was beyond clear in that moment that they would be addressing the proverbial pirate elephant in the room a lot more quickly than either had expected.

Their drinks arrived a few minutes later—a glass of MacCutcheon whiskey for Emma, the bottle left behind just in case, and a lager for her father. She knew she should’ve been pacing herself, but the moment the half full glass was placed in front of her, she picked it up and sculled the contents with a quick flick of her wrist. The whiskey was smooth on the way down, but the burn that followed had her squeezing her eyes shut and bracing against the counter with one flattened palm.

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy.” The press of her father’s hand against her back, reassuring and warm and rubbing soft circles into the fabric of her sweater, had her breathing a bit more easily. When she opened her eyes again a moment later, the pained, concerned look on his face had her looking guiltily away within an instant. “Emma, you know you can talk to me.”

She sighed under her breath as she picked the bottle up from the counter and refilled her glass, to the brim this time. “I know, Dad.”

“I mean…” His voice was lighter now, teasing warmth and gentle comfort all at once. “That’s kind of the whole reason you brought me here for this whole…shindig, isn’t it?”

She smiled now, more genuinely than she had before, and nodded. But within a few seconds more, the smile faded, replaced with a faraway look. “It’s just…” Her breath hitched and she furrowed her brow against the way her eyes now burned in entirely different way. “I mean…I thought he was different.” Her voice was small then, unfamiliar and embarrassingly fraught with emotion. She looked down at the dark wood of the countertop, running her fingertips along the intricate grain.

And then, her father’s hand was atop her own, stilling her searching movements and providing a moment of much needed grounding. “We all did, Emma,” he admitted, tip of his thumb pressing into the inside of her wrist. As she looked up at him, she could tell he was taking a moment to collect his thoughts, before he sighed and continued. “But…well, there’s nothing that says he still can’t be.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” She blinked a few times over and shook her head. “He…he just… We had one fight, and he left. I…I went to _hell_ for him, Dad. He _died_ for me. Not just the once, either, which is just…” Her throat tightened, memories flashing vivid as ever through her mind. Her left hand instinctively reached for the ring that once hung around her neck, but it—much like the ring that briefly adorned her ring finger—was nowhere to be found. “We were True Love. Everything we went through, everything we had and struggled for and _felt_ , it was True Love. The gods told us as much. Zeus…Zeus sent him back to me, because he…he was meant to be here, with me, and… And we have one fight, where I ask him to trust me, and he just…he decides that he can’t? That this isn’t what he wants anymore?” Her fingers twisted into the neck of her sweater. “None of this makes sense. But he’s just…gone. So what am I supposed to think?”

“I can’t possibly imagine what you’re feeling right now, Emma, but…what I can tell you—and what I truly _believe_ —is that…sometimes, even the strongest of loves faces the most unfair tests. I mean, your mother and I…we walked away from each other so many times, for so many reasons that seem so…small, now, after everything else. We lost each other, time and again. And I…I died for her, too, you’ll remember.” A sad little smile spread across his lips as he raised his hand from over hers and instead used that hand to push her hair back from her face. “And I once died for you, too, thirty years ago,” he reminded her, touching her cheek softly with the tips of his fingers. “But your mother and I…the three of us…we’ve found each other every single time, haven’t we? No matter what stood in the way, whether it was cursed memories or different realms or death itself. None of it mattered. Not when you love someone, and they love you back.

“And before you start rolling your eyes at me, for giving one of those speeches again,” he continued, pausing to eye her with loving wariness and a hint of a grin on his lips, “I want you to look at me, and think—really, truly think—about everything Killian has done for you. And everything you’ve done for him. Because…I might have my fair share of reasons to be furious with him right now, given what you told me this morning, and given what he’s made you feel right now. But…I know everything else he’s made you feel before this. I’ve seen the way you look at him, the love in your eyes and the way you grin like you’re not afraid of falling anymore. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you, the way he sacrifices for you. The way he lets himself be saved by you, time and again. I know who you are, Emma. And I know who he is. And so do you. So whatever you’re feeling right now, whatever fears you might have that he’s just another person who will leave you when you need them the most…

“You have to know that…something else is going on here. If he left, there was a reason for it. He’s not the kind to run when the going gets tough.” He paused there, smiling softly and catching the corner of her eye with the pad of his thumb. “And you know that better than anyone.”

She let out a shuddering breath then, shutting her eyes as she felt a few tears slipping freely down along her cheeks, and she had to laugh then, as she opened her eyes and saw him staring at her so earnestly, so assured and strong. “How do you do it, Dad?” she whispered, shaking her head and moving in to lean into his touch against her face, his palm now curving to fit her cheek. “How do you just…let yourself take that risk?”

His smile grew a bit sadder then, and he had to shake his head, looking aged well beyond his time in the moment as years of hard living weighed down on his shoulders all at once. “Because…if you don’t take that risk, you’ll never know what you could be missing out on.” Shifting his stool a little closer to hers, he now moved to drape his arm around her shoulders, urging her to settle against him, to rest her wearied head against his sturdy shoulders. “Do you love him, Emma?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in her answer, her voice strong and sure and laced with the conviction that had become her signature. Love, after all, was strength. She needed to believe that more than ever in this moment. “Yes, of course I love him. I…I always will.”

As he felt her tuck her head in against his chest, he smiled softly to himself and turned his head, kissing the top of her hair softly. “Then, if you’re that sure, I think you know what you have to do here.”

Shutting her eyes, she breathed out a tired little sigh and smiled. “Never stop fighting?” she asked quietly, the smallest of sniffles lacing her words.

Her father smiled to himself and nodded a little against her, resting his chin gently atop her head. “No matter what the odds.”


End file.
